


I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For

by grey2510



Series: Light's Grace!verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Chuck is God, Dean Has Self-Worth Issues, Episode: s01e12 Faith, Episode: s10e16 Paint It Black, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Rewrite, faith - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 09:46:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4782860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510/pseuds/grey2510
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Sam take a case at a haunted church in Massachusetts a few weeks after Cas becomes human and Claire starts living in the bunker full time. Dean confronts some of his fears about the new family they've cobbled together.</p><p>Canon-divergent after 10x14 and follows the events of the previous parts of the Light's Grace!verse.</p><p>(This is essentially a rewrite of 10x16 "Paint it Black" to fit the canon of the Light's Grace!verse; it also includes a coda to 1x12 "Faith".)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from [the U2 song by the same name](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O_ISAntOom0). (Seriously, check out the lyrics -- they're posted in the end note. You could re-title it "The Ballad of Dean Winchester"...it fits Dean's confession in 10x16 almost perfectly.)
> 
> I don't usually like to do rewrites of episodes, but 10x16 was just such a powerful episode for Dean's character (and major kudos to Jensen for the confession scene) that I couldn't NOT include it as part of his character arc. I hope I've changed enough things / added some new elements that it still feels original.
> 
> And also, to those of you who have read the other parts of the series already, remember that this takes place really early in Dean and Cas' relationship, so things aren't as settled for them as they are in later installments.
> 
> Lastly, I'm not religious at all, so I hope I don't offend anyone's beliefs or think that I'm trying to preach through Layla's story.
> 
>  
> 
> **LG!V TIMELINE: March 2015**  
> 

_**2006** _

 

Sam’s steady breathing in the next bed provides a familiar soundtrack as Dean leans back against the headboard of the crappy motel bed, his dad’s journal on his lap and a newspaper article opened between the well-worn and inked pages. He’s read the article so many times at this point that he practically has it memorized, and honestly, it’s the least he can do for the guy featured. But it’s not enough. How can he ever make himself worthy of this man’s death?

OPENLY GAY TEACHER WINS LAWSUIT, the headline reads, followed by a picture of Marshall Hall, the healthy twenty-seven year-old that Sue-Ann Le Grange deemed immoral enough to kill to save Dean fucking Winchester, a fucking high school dropout who has let his family slip through his fingers again and again, a jackass who dragged his brother away from a good life and education at Stanford because he couldn’t man up and find their dad on his own.

But no, he lives and Marshall Hall had to die so that Sue-Ann Le Grange could wage her pointless war against anyone who disagreed with her beliefs, so that she could bolster the reputation of her supposedly faith-healing husband.

That bitch.

And really, who would save Dean when there are people who actually deserve it?

Like Layla.

Just hours before, they’d sat on motel beds (different ones; after Layla had left, Dean couldn’t stand to be in that room or town any longer and the brothers had quickly left), and Layla had come to comfort and reassure Dean.

Layla, the one with fucking brain cancer and only a few months to live, had come to make _Dean_ feel better.

Seriously.

Why the fuck is _he_ the one alive and healthy?

The conversation plays over in his mind, and he closes his eyes, fighting to keep his emotions in check.

 _“You wanna hear something weird?” she’d smiled softly. Soft. That was a good way to describe her: Layla was soft, but not in a weak way_ — _no, she was far from weak: she was kind and gentle and warm and still believed in goodness, even with all the bad in her life. “I’m ok. Really. I guess if you’re gonna have faith, you can’t just have it when the miracles happen. You have to have it when they don’t.”_

_Dean studied her. “So what now?” he’d asked, awkwardly._

_She smiled again. “God works in mysterious ways.” She put a hand to his cheek as she rose to leave. “Good-bye, Dean.”_

_Dean’s eyes closed, just for a second. He could feel his voice cracking as he, too, rose from the bed and uttered words he’d never thought he’d say. “Well...I’m not much of the praying type...but...I’m gonna pray for you.”_

_He could see tears in her eyes, but they never made it to her cheeks. This is what he meant: soft, but not weak. How could she be so strong? So sure?_

_“Well,” she said, “there’s a miracle right there.”_

_And then she was gone._

Dean Winchester might be a lot of things, and he knows that very few of them are good, but he’s a man of his word, especially when it comes to someone like her. He opens his eyes, and puts the journal and article on the bed beside him. He won’t kneel because, well, that’s just not going to happen, and if there is a God out there, He’ll just have to get over it. Instead, Dean brings his knees up towards his chest, and he props his elbows on them, clasping his hands and leaning his forehead to his entwined fingers. This will just have to be good enough for the big man upstairs.

“Dear God,” he mutters quietly, and he fights the snide voice in the back of his head— _“Dear God”? Seriously? What’re you, fucking pen pals with the Almighty?_ “I, uh, well, if you’re out there, I guess you know I’m not much for praying. I hate asking for anything, and if there’s one fucking—sorry—one thing I’m not gonna do, it’s beg. But, this isn’t for me, ya know?”

He looks over to the sleeping form of his brother, hoping Sammy doesn’t wake up, but the giant of a kid just snuffles into his pillow. He closes his eyes and resumes his prayer.

“It’s, uh, that girl, Layla. I dunno if there’s anything you can do for her, but damn, she deserves to get better a lot more than I did. I dunno what the criteria is for getting to cheat death, but if I somehow qualify, that’s one fu—I mean, messed up—system you got. No offense. He...ck, I can’t even pray right. I guess what I’m saying is, I’d like you to watch out for her, ok? Please? Because she’s got a lot more faith than I do and she deserves something good.”

It nearly kills him to says this and hear the pleading in his voice; he can almost hear his dad’s voice mocking him, telling him to man up and to stop begging, that no one’s listening anyway. He grits his teeth and soldiers on. For Layla.

“I know I got a second chance, but I don’t deserve it. It shouldn’t be me. And I’m sorry for Marshall Hall. He shouldn’t have died, definitely not for me, and not because that b—woman—thought he was a sinner or whatever. I don’t care if you got some Biblical policy on that sh—stuff, but with all the evil out there in the world, I gotta think liking another dude’s gotta be pretty low on the priority list.”

He pauses. How do you wrap up a prayer? Amen? Thanks? From the other bed, Sam stretches and Dean almost laughs softly at the exposed ankle demonstrating once again that motel beds are no match for Sasquatch. He takes a deep breath, then lets his eyes trace the cracks and bumps in the ceiling above his bed for a moment before closing them again.

“Uh, so yeah. Sorry. And thanks, for Layla. Amen.” Better cover all the bases.

He opens up his eyes and surveys the room. Peeling wallpaper, an old TV (although, considering it looks like it was made in the 90s and comes with an actual remote, it’s practically new compared to some of the units he’s seen in rooms like this), tacky floral wallpaper peeling along the baseboards, a dark stain on the ceiling over the window where the fluorescent lights from the parking lot peek through the cracks of the threadbare curtains. Nothing more than another cheap motel, another pitstop on the way the Winchesters’ way to nowhere.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting. White light? Some divine revelation? A deep, bone-shattering, disembodied voice saying, “Thanks for the prayer, asshole. Maybe if you had a little more faith, I’d get on this request ASAP. Instead, take a number, and get in line like everyone else”?

Somehow, considering all the fucked up shit he’s seen over the years, that last one seems the most likely, if there is a God.

Eventually, he scrunches down on the bed and lies back against the pillow. He studies the whorls in the dingy plaster in the ceiling, waiting for something. Sleep? The end of this gnawing guilt? The end of all this fucking shit he’s dealt with, that he’s brought upon himself and Sam? Something.

In the early hours of the morning, exhaustion finally trumps his swirling thoughts, and he falls into the realm of nightmares.

 

  

_**2015** _

 

He didn’t mean to overhear, but then again, it wasn’t like Cas and Claire were being overly sneaky or something. They were just watching TV, and Dean would have joined them but for some reason they both enjoy terrible reality TV show marathons—something Dean could do without; he’ll stick to his _Dr. Sexy_ guilty pleasure, thank you very much (hey, at least it’s compelling...and sexy)—and considering the weirdness of Cas and Claire’s relationship, Dean has no problem with them spending time bonding over the boob tube, especially if that means Claire won’t be beelining for the bus station again like she did a couple weeks ago.   

This time, they’re watching some HGTV show that Dean had, up until today, been positive was only watched by suburban women. Lisa had been pretty cool and hardly a Stepford wife, but even she would find herself suckered into watching people remodel their ensuite bathrooms into mini palaces, which Dean never understood. Sure, he likes a good shower (and whenever he gets stuck in a shitty motel with terrible water pressure, he immediately finds himself longing for the bunker), but other than cleanliness or taking a crap, it’s not like a person spends a lot of time hanging out in the bathroom (shower sex being the only exception to the rule). If you’ve got that kind of money to spend, why not blow it on a huge-ass entertainment system? Or a nearly professional level garage? Or a kitchen that’d make Gordon Ramsay blush? Ya know—the important stuff.

Claire’s words snap Dean out of his reverie in the hallway and he listens just outside the door.

“That one looks like our first house. Before Pontiac.” Pause. “Do you...remember it?”

Dean hears Cas shift slightly on the couch. “No, Claire. I’m sorry. There are...certain things that seem vaguely familiar to me because your father felt so strongly about them at the time that they bled through to my consciousness, but your father was largely unaware of what was going on and I tried not to invade his memories.”

“Oh.” Claire’s voice sounds hollow and Dean thinks this is the end of the conversation, but Claire begins again after a moment. “We moved when I was five. The first house only had two bedrooms and I think my parents wanted...well, we got a bigger house. They didn’t talk about it much, not with me, at least. But I really loved my bedroom back there.”

“I’m s—”

“Don’t say you’re sorry, Castiel. That wasn’t your fault.”

Dean can hear the unspoken implication of what _is_ Cas’ fault, and he’s sure Cas can, too, because the TV room falls silent again except for the natterings of the show’s host.

“Can you tell me about the first house?” Cas asks cautiously. “Tell me about your room.”

There’s an uneasy quiet for a moment, and then Claire launches into her memories. Teal curtains and a built-in toy-box under the window that doubled as a window-seat. Building blanket forts over her bed. The neighbors with twins, a boy and a girl, only a few months younger than Claire—her first friends—and how the parents would switch off taking all three to the park or out for ice cream in the summer.

“That sounds wonderful,” Cas says quietly and wistfully when she finishes.

“Yeah, it was,” Claire agrees.

Dean leans back against the wall as he listens, his gaze boring into the ugly concrete above him. Claire and Cas deserve so much more than this. Claire knows what she lost, and that makes it all the worse. Cas, though, has _never_ known anything other than being a soldier for Heaven or a constantly, cosmically, fucked-over hunter with the Winchesters. Claire had the apple pie life, Cas barely knows that it exists. And yet here they are, in a fucking bunker, escaping from or fighting the evils of the world, when they should have the house and the yard and the white picket fence.

And now Cas will hear what he’s missing. It could be his chance to be human—again—and not fuck it up this time. Why is he here? Dean can’t offer either of them anything except more pain and suffering. Dean tried that normal life with Lisa and Ben, but Lisa was right: he could never leave hunting, he could never fit into her world completely. But maybe Cas and Claire could. Maybe not together—talk about a complicated family history—but there has to be more for them in this world than this. And who is Dean to make them stay, to keep dragging everyone down? It’s bad enough he did it to Sam when he showed up at Stanford.

 

 

The next few days are miserable, and Dean knows he’s to blame. The guilt and shame of being the ball and chain to Cas’ human life and Claire’s chances to regain a normal one seem to seep into everything. _I’m poison_ , he remembers saying once. There’s an uncomfortable truth to that analogy as his unease spreads, infecting the atmosphere of the bunker.

And everything seems to trigger it, even the smallest things:

Claire casually remarking that she’s going out for some fresh air makes Dean inwardly curse at the tomblike nature of the bunker that they’ve tried to make into a home.

Cas commenting on the sushi place that they pass a few towns over, saying that he knows Dean would probably never want to go, but Cas would be interested in trying it. It’s just fucking sushi, but even then Dean feels like a selfish asshole from keeping something from Cas.

Dean going to the hardware store for hunting supplies and taking time to admire the tools and equipment he’ll probably never need because they’re for actual home maintenance, before he scowls and barks at Cas that they still need to get rock salt, as though it’s somehow all Cas’ fault, when really it’s the exact opposite.

Dean hates the look Cas gives him whenever he snaps, the sadness and hurt, and he knows that a part of Cas must be wondering if Dean is going to kick him out again, like he did the first time Cas was human. Dean wouldn’t, of course, and that’s just part of the problem. Dean wants—needs—Cas around. But maybe Cas would be better off finding out what it means to be human without Dean.

 

 

It’s a relief when Dean finds them a case up in Massachusetts. Cas is still recovering from his fall and loss of Grace, and so just the Winchester brothers pack up and make their way towards New England. Dean doesn’t even really care _what_ the case is, just that it’s _something_ to keep his mind busy.

“All right, so I’m thinking, uh, curse, maybe,” he says from behind the wheel. Sam doesn’t respond, clearly deep in thought. “Sam, a little help here, ok? I’m trying to stay busy here. You know, eye on the ball. And this is a case until we know it’s not.”

“Sure,” Sam agrees half-heartedly. “No, yeah, you’re right. Three suicides, two weeks.”

“They’re not just suicides,” Dean corrects. “They gutted themselves. And they took their sweet time doing it. I mean, that had to be incredibly painful. I can’t seem to find any link between the vics, either.”

“Yeah, probably a curse, I bet.”

Dean side-eyes his brother. “What, Sammy? This case too boring for you? You got something else pressing?”

“No, Dean. It’s just…” Sam sighs, and it’s the kind of sigh that Dean knows all too well: it’s the ‘we have to talk, Dean, and I’m gonna keep bringing it up even if you want to punch me’ sigh. Dean clenches his jaw and glares as though his eyes are lasers that can drill into the trunk of the car in front of him as Sam continues, “We packed up pretty quick. Like you couldn’t wait to get out of the bunker.”

“It’s a case, Sammy. People are _dying_. Isn’t that the whole family business?” Dean deflects angrily and with probably an unhealthy dose of snark.

“Yeah, it is. But…”

“What?” Dean growls, even though he knows he’ll regret it.

“Is everything ok? With you and Cas?”

“We’re _fine_ , Sam. What the hell does me and Cas have anything to do with people committing harakiri a thousand miles away?”

“Nothing, Dean,” Sam lets out with exasperation. “Look, I know you, man—”

“If you know me, then why on Earth are we still talking about this?”

“—and you two have been miserable the past few days and you’ve been pushing Cas away,” Sam continues, ignoring Dean’s interruption. “And if this has something to do with, I dunno, you being with a guy—”

“What the actual fuck, Sam?” Dean practically yells. “No, we are not having this conversation. And what the hell? That’s not...it’s not about that.”

Sam regards him carefully, not convinced. “You sure?”

“Yes, I’m fucking sure,” Dean grinds out. “We done now?”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, though Dean knows this is just half-time: the game’s not over yet.

And Sam’s not entirely wrong either, Dean has to admit to himself. It’s not like a month or so of being with Cas is going to magically erase all the macho bullshit drilled into him by his dad and society (the hunting community may have open minds to things that would make the average citizen say they’re crazy, but they’re still a pretty conservative bunch in the end). He doesn’t even want to imagine what John would think if he found out his son was shacking up with a formerly non-human being who is now, for all intents and purposes, male. He _knows_ it’s all crap and that he should just be able to say “fuck it” to everyone who thinks they have a right to give a damn what Dean does—and with whom—in the privacy of his own bedroom, but unfortunately that’s not how the brain works. But he’s working on it, he really is. It’s just one more thing to add to the pile of crap he’s trying to deal with.

But he does _not_ want to have that discussion with Sam. He knows Sam means well, but Dean just can’t, not with his little brother. Rule #1: Protect Sam. It’s the only rule he’s really lived by his whole life, and letting Sam in, showing him the cracks in the armor, goes against Dean’s very soul.

Besides, Dean’s hang-ups about his sexuality aren’t really the problem; Cas gets it and has been patient with Dean, for which Dean feels extremely grateful and incredibly guilty. And whatever is going on between them right now is a Gordian Knot of problems that isn’t going to be solved with a heart-to-heart and a hug.

So instead, the brothers drive in stormy silence for another few hundred miles, Dean’s frustration with Sam just compounding the guilt he already feels about dragging down Cas, and Claire. It’s a vicious cycle. Story of his life.

Reaching Worcester, Massachusetts does little to improve his mood, although at least by now, the heat of the argument has faded into Dean’s usual pessimism and grousing about trivial inconveniences. Dean drums his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel as the Impala inches along the narrow, winding highway through the city. He can freaking _see_ the next exit, but it might as well be on the other side of the country at the pace they’re going, and all he wants is to get Baby there before he has to deal with anymore of the bullshit that is I-290. He doesn’t even care if the directions say to take Exit 16 for the police station; Exit 13 is just gonna have to cut it because Dean would rather drive through the city than stay here any longer.

“Christ, and I thought the Turnpike...no, sorry, _the Pike_...was bad,” he gripes.

“The Pike?” Sam asks absently from the passenger seat.

Dean rolls his eyes, though not at his brother. “Yeah. Last time we were up this way I called I-90 ‘the Turnpike,’ ‘cause that’s what it fucking is, and you would’ve thought I just told them I was a Yankees fan or something. I had, I dunno, four people? correct me with their noses up that it’s just called ‘the Pike.’”

Sam snorts. “At least you didn’t get a ‘down the Cape’ not ‘to Cape Cod’ lecture like I did once.”

“A what?”

“Exactly.”

They move another couple inches and stop again. Dean looks off the highway at the city and is surprised by how short all the buildings are. Granted, there are a couple typical tall city buildings, but there isn’t really much of a traditional city skyline. Dean finds it hard to believe this place is the second largest city in New England, but then again, cities have never really been his thing—he’s a bit like his old man in that regard.

Small towns are easier: the police are usually more naïve about the FBI showing up, parking Baby is easier on a wide tree- and shop-lined Main Street than in a tiny curb space where she’s likely to get dinged by assholes who can’t parallel park correctly, and the likelihood of getting shot or mugged while canvassing and looking for witnesses is usually pretty slim in suburbia; the only bad guys you typically have to worry about tend to be of supernatural origin. Worcester, it seems, is a weird mix of the two kinds of locations; the city rolls over steep hills, stacked with old factory buildings (some still functioning, some converted to other businesses), storefronts, and two or three story multi-family homes and apartment buildings.

Finally, traffic opens up enough that Dean can edge into the lane for Exit 13, and he breathes a sigh of relief even though Sam shoots him a bitchface for taking the wrong exit.

“Take a left at the light towards Kelley Square,” Sam says when the map app on his phone recalculates. Dean just smirks as he follows the directions, but that smirk is short-lived once he sees the clusterfuck that is Kelley Square.

This case hasn’t even begun and Dean Winchester is so fucking done with this place.

 

 

The police station doesn’t tell them much, and so far the only connection Dean can find between all the victims is religion.

“Dean, this is Massachusetts. There are a lot of Catholics in Massachusetts,” Sam points out as they head back to the car. “You think this is a case?”

Dean does, and he argues the point well enough to convince Sam to stick around and at least question Father Delaney and Sister Mathias at St. Philomena’s, the church where all three members were parishioners. The church, more like a cathedral (though Dean’s never been too sure what the definitions are, but this place is pretty big), is only a few minutes away from the police station, and it looms up from the street with Gothic arched windows and spires.

Inside, all they learn from the priest is that three men were regulars at confession, but Father Delaney can’t reveal what was confessed.  However, Sister Mathias, whom Dean immediately likes, is young and sharp and has fewer qualms telling the “agents” that there were rumors of infidelity among the victims. As Sam inspects the candles before the altar with the EMF meter, Dean can’t help but wonder about Sister Mathias.

“I got a question,” he says, and Sister Mathias raises an enquiring brow. “How does someone, uh, like you end up, you know…?”

“Cloistered away from the world?” She laughs. “Are you making fun of me, Agent Allman?”

“No. No, no. I, uh...I guess I’m just wondering how somebody quits one life for something completely different and...and then believe in it so much.” The words tumble out of him, and he’s surprised at himself for unintentionally revealing his own fears to a stranger. In all his years, he never thought he would one day be looking for advice from a nun because he suspects they might have something in common.

“Well...in my case, I felt I had no choice. My life had become painful,” she answers, the look in her eyes confirming her words. “There was hopelessness. I felt I had to find something larger than myself to focus on. A kind of mission, I guess. You have no idea what I’m talking about, I’m sure.”

“Hm, don’t be,” Dean offers.

Dean understands. He understands more than he could ever want to. He might not be a man of faith, at least not in the traditional sense, but he gets the need for a mission to block out everything else that’s crap in life. It’s why he’s here, for crying out loud, because hunting some demon or ghost or whatever is a hell of a lot easier than facing reality back in the bunker, the reality that he doesn’t deserve Cas, that Cas deserves more out of life, and that it’s probably all going to go to shit anyway because that’s just the Winchester curse.  

Sam returns from surveying for EMF, and they question Sister Mathias about anything weird in the church. The nun surprises them by teasingly asking if the FBI is seriously investigating the paranormal. Dean wonders again why someone like her would choose such a secluded life.

As they leave the church, the brothers go over the case so far, notably the inconclusiveness of the EMF and the fact that the men had been unfaithful to their wives before killing themselves.

“You know that all the victims recently went to confession?” Dean says, recalling what the priest had told them.

“So you think Father Delaney’s involved?”

“Or maybe something surrounding the confessional. Sammy, how long has it been since my last confession?” Dean asks, a shit-eating grin spreading on his face. Sam just gives him a look.

“You’ve never been to confession,” he answers dryly as he passes Dean.

“Well, that’s too long,” Dean jokes as he follows his brother.

 

 

Sam claps Dean on the shoulder, saying he’ll keep checking out the church for any more clues while Dean makes his “confession.”

“And don’t be an ass about it,” Sam warns, though with the resignation of someone who knows his words will go unheeded.

“You wound me, Sam. I’m practically a saint,” Dean mocks, a hand over his heart. He grins and struts over to the confessional box, quickly pulling open the door and settling himself on the small, hard chair. He knocks on the window, and Father Delaney slides open the shutter.

“Yes?” the Father asks through the screen.

Dean offers a smirk. “Hiya, Father.”

“Pardon me?” the priest says, trying, and failing, to keep the annoyance from his voice.

“Pardon you? I thought it was the other way around,” Dean chortles, and for some reason, he pictures Claire rolling her eyes at the lame joke with all the sass a seventeen-year-old can muster—which, he has come to learn, is a shit-ton. He pushes her out of her mind, though, as he clears his throat and begins his fake confession. “Just...it’s...so, uh, I’m here to...here to clean house. I need to get some things off my chest.”

“Oh. All right. Continue,” Father Delaney encourages with obvious reluctance. Dean would care but...yeah, no, he really wouldn’t. Church isn’t really his thing, and Father Delaney might not be a bad guy, but Dean’s got more pressing matters at hand. And if he wants to convince this demon or spirit or whatever that he’s a Grade-A douche who’s worthy of supernatural-assisted suicide, well, he might as well start this confession off right. Well, wrong. Same thing.

“Um...it’s the women, Father. Where do I begin?” he laughs.

“‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,’ is usual,” the priest retorts, and Dean thinks that maybe teenage girls aren’t the only sass-masters out there.

“Right. Good. Yeah. So, that, and, um...so the women. Uh, and this is not something I’m proud of, but I let them think that we have more of a future than we do, you know?”

Well, it’s not a lie. Pre-Cas, and excluding Lisa, this was pretty much Dean Winchester’s _modus operandi_. Love ‘em and leave ‘em. A life on the road where Valentine’s Day is re-christened Unattached Drifter Christmas. It’d been a wild ride.

“Ah, Gina,” he adds, pulling the name out of nowhere, because even though this isn’t a real confession, using a real name to talk about how he’s a cheating dirtbag just feels wrong. He never cheated on Lisa, never would have, and same with Cas.

“Gina?” Father Delaney asks.

“Well, now, don’t get me wrong. I mean, she was...it was good times. I mean, you know how it is: the sex, the lasagna…” _Lasagna? Where the fuck did that come from?_  “...but I was not honest with her. And sometimes, I was seeing two, maybe three girls at the same time, sometimes in the same day, heh. You get the picture,” Dean smirks, especially when he realizes that, no, Father Delaney does _not_ get the picture. It’s like the born-again virgin support group all over again. “And it wasn’t just Gina. It was endless. It’s making me sick!”

Ok, so even Dean can admit he might have gone a bit overboard there. Hey, he never claimed to be an actor. He’ll leave that to the Jensen Ackleses of the other worlds.

“And you wish to be forgiven, my son?” The words come automatically from the priest, and Dean can tell the guy’s probably heard a million confessions like this from guys who just want to feel less like assholes until the next babe comes their way.

“I do,” Dean agrees. “I need to clean up my act.”

“As penance, you shall say five ‘Hail Marys’, two ‘Our Fathers’, and reflect on your transgression.”

“And then, that’s it? Then I’m good to go?”

“One would hope some...inner exploration might occur.” The sigh in Father Delaney’s voice is almost palpable. “The prayers are just the beginning to some serious soul-searching.”

“Hmm.”

Soul-searching. Dean knows what the guy means, but if Father Delaney knew just how much literal soul-searching Dean’s been through, he might have phrased it a bit differently, especially since most of the time, Dean hasn’t even been the one searching for his own soul. Welcome to the Winchester life.

But still. Sam was right. Dean’s a fucking mess and he _knows_ he’s about to ruin probably the only good thing that’s happened to him in...forever. He thinks over the past few decades, how he’d pretty much resigned himself to living a crap life, how he figured he’d probably go out young and bloody, or how he’d never live long enough to ever enjoy the good things this world has to offer. He thinks of how close he came to really losing it all with the Mark, and how he had been ok with that, in a way.

 _“Knife me. Smite me. Throw me into the freakin’ sun, whatever. And don’t let Sam get in the way, because he’ll try. I can’t go down that road again, man. I can’t be that thing again,”_ he had told Cas. He should have known Cas would never keep that promise.

But now? Now that he has...family? Would he ask for that fate again if put in a similar situation? Should he, if it came down to it?

“Is there anything else on your mind, Agent Allman?” Father Delaney quietly breaks through Dean’s thoughts. Dean gives a sad and bitter smile before replying.

“What if I said I...I didn’t want to die...yet, you know, that I wasn’t ready?”

“Are you expecting to?”

“Always. You know, the life I live, the work I do...I pretty much just figured that was all there was to me, you know? Tear around and jam the key in the ignition and haul ass until I ran out of gas. I guess I just thought sooner or later, I’d go out the same way that I live: pedal to the metal, and that would be it.”

“But now?”

“Now, um…recent events, uh...showed me just how close to that I really came. And...I don’t know. I mean, you know, there’s...there’s things, there’s...people, feelings that I-I-I want to experience differently than I have before, or maybe even for the first time.”

“Go a little deeper, perhaps, than with Gina?”

Dean grimaces at the mention of the fake girlfriend. Yeah, he wants more with Cas than he ever has with anyone else, even Lisa. But he can’t talk about Cas, not now. Dean’s done a lot of stupid stuff, but having a big gay confession to a Catholic priest—even if they are in Massachusetts and he probably wouldn’t get run out of town for it—would certainly be close to the top of that list. And that’s before mentioning the guy was a literal angel who fell and lost his Grace to save Dean’s sorry ass. Somehow he doesn’t think that would go over well with the good Father.  

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m just starting to think that...maybe there’s more to it all than I thought. But they deserve so much more, to get out of the life I live instead of me holding them back.” Inwardly, Dean hopes the priest doesn’t question his choice of pronouns, though he’s not just talking about Cas. It’s Cas, Sam, Claire, Charlie...all of them.

“You don’t believe you deserve those things, too?”

Memories of a barn in Illinois play over in Dean’s mind. _“You don’t think you deserve to be saved,”_ Cas had said. No, he really doesn’t. Why should he?

“Like I said, I’ve done a lot of things in my past I’m not proud of. And I don’t think there’s an escape from all this for me, even if I want it.”

“Learning there’s more to the universe than your tiny world can be a frightening discovery, and it’s natural to feel unworthy of these things at first. But we are often far more worthy and deserving than we believe, especially if we seek forgiveness and make amends for our past transgressions.” Father Delaney pauses for a moment, and his words sink into Dean. “Do you truly believe in God, Agent? Because that can be a comfort.”

Dean thinks of the one time he actually prayed to God, long before he knew about angels and what Heaven’s really like. He did it once, for that girl, Layla. And his prayers had done fuck all, as far as he knows. And considering how screwed up humans, angels, and demons have made the world, he doesn’t really blame God for ignoring him.

“I believe there is a God. But I am not sure He still believes in us.”

And with that, Dean leaves the confessional box, taking the second before he rounds the corner to breath deeply and compose himself. He sees Sam sitting in a far pew, and he swaggers over, arms wide, as though he doesn’t have a care in the world.

“So, you think you had an eavesdropper in there?” Sam asks as they make their way to the exit.

“Hope so.”

“You better watch your back. If we were right, jerks like you are just what our ghost is looking for,” Sam jokes. Dean huffs a small laugh in agreement. He knows Sammy’s joke was just that, but the barb still stings more than Dean would like to admit.

 

 

The call they get from Sister Mathias is unexpected, to say the least. She tells them about Isabella, the ghost of a nun who died five hundred years ago and whose possessions were just sent from Italy to St. Philomena. The nun explains that she never mentioned Isabella because in all of her years dealing with restless spirits, she’s never encountered one that was dangerous.

“Wait a second. So, you’re just comfortable around ghosts?” Sam asks with incredulity.

“As a spiritual person, I’ve accepted many planes of existence. And as I said, they’ve all been harmless. Isabella was my friend. We had a lot in common, including...painful love lives. I wanted to protect her.”

Part of Dean’s mind continues with the questioning about Isabella’s possessions, and he absently listens to Isabella’s backstory: that she killed her lover, a painter named Piero, because he rejected her, but then she later found him with another woman. This part of Dean, the born hunter, calculates that since Isabella was probably buried in Florence, her spirit must be tied to one of her possessions, most likely her journal.

The other part of Dean’s mind is still focused on what Sister Mathias has told him about her decisions to join the convent. A painful love life? Hopelessness? She doesn’t seem like the type to get so bent out of shape just because some guy broke up with her.

Then again, she never said it was a guy. In fact, she was just as vague as Dean had been in the confessional. _Huh_ , he thinks briefly before turning his full attention to the protests Sam is making about Isabella’s things, that the journal might not be the key to it all.

“Well, I don’t know, Dean. I mean, there might be more in here.”

Dean just wants to wrap up this case ASAP; he’s not interested in playing _Antiques Roadshow_ with Isabella’s possessions.

“Sam, burn it. Let’s go,” he says to Sister Mathias.

They make their way into the church, where Dean explains the rock salt shotgun and how Isabella could be temporarily possessing people while they’re in the church before getting pulled back to ground zero after the person dies. In a room in the basement, the EMF starts to go haywire and Dean discovers the body of Father Delaney, gutted, on a table. Quickly, he returns to the nun.

“She got to Father Delaney. She’s around here somewhere. We got to get you out of here. Come on!” Dean tries to lead her out by the hand.

But it’s too late: Isabella has possessed Sister Mathias, and she throws Dean against the wall, her hand around his neck. Not for the first time, Dean wishes this wasn’t such a common occurrence on hunts. He barely even hears the ghost, through the nun’s voice, explain her reason for killing the priest—something about forgiving people who don’t deserve it—and instead he uses all of his strength, whatever isn't dedicated to fighting off the chokehold and the knife the nun has pulled, on crying out, “Sam, burn the journal!”

A few tense seconds later and Isabella leaves Sister Mathias, pleading for help as she burns away.

Sister Mathias is frightened and shocked, but she recovers long enough to reassure Sam and Dean that she’ll wait until they’re safely out of town before calling the cops to take care of Father Delaney. Dean wishes he could stay—it’s never easy just leaving this mess for the civilians—but he knows the nun is right, and he’s grateful for such a competent local ally for a change.

It’s not until they’re back in the car that Sam tells Dean that it wasn’t the journal anchoring Isabella’s ghost, it was the painting Piero had done of Isabella, a painting for which Isabella had cut off her own finger. Which, Sam is only too delighted to point out, he only learned of because instead of burning the journal, he read it.

“Who mixes their blood and bones into paint? No woman’s ever done that for me,” Dean remarks. Sam raises an eyebrow and Dean knows what his brother is thinking. Yeah, no woman has ever done that for Dean, true. But wasn’t it Cas himself who said he was always happy to bleed for the Winchesters? Wasn’t it Cas who gave up his Grace, his whole identity and power as an angel, for Dean? _Fuck. What have I ever done to deserve this? Deserve him?_

Luckily, Sam doesn’t press the issue, and instead just steers the conversation back to brotherly banter. “Is this you thanking me for not doing what you told me to do?”

“You know, if you would have burned the journal, then we wouldn’t know how to kill it, would we?”

“Yeah, you’re welcome,” Sam laughs, and Dean joins him. “You know,” Sam says more slowly, “you were in that confessional a long time. Look, man, I’m just saying, I’m your brother, Dean. If you ever need to talk about anything with anybody, you got somebody right here next to you.”

“Ok,” Dean allows, pointedly not engaging any further.

“I heard what Sister Mathias was saying about, you know, hiding pain and escaping relationship problems by taking on a mission, and I know that’s what you’re doing a little bit. And it’s ok. I mean, it’s fine. I get it. I’ve done it before, too.” Sam turns in his seat slightly to face Dean. “But...I don’t buy for a second that you and Cas are fine right now, so you can’t keep feeding me that line. And you definitely can’t keep feeding it to yourself or Cas. I don’t know what’s going on, but I know that Cas is the best thing that’s happened to you in a long freaking time. So, don’t throw it away, all right?”

 “Ok, Sammy,” Dean agrees hollowly. He _knows_ Cas is the best thing that’s happened to him. As insightful as Sam is, sometimes Dean’s brother can be so close and yet so far off the mark.

“You want to...uh, try that again like you mean it?”

“Ok,” Dean says with a little more emphasis.  

 

 

Dread and relief churn in Dean’s stomach as they roll up to the bunker, and the nauseating combination only intensifies when he sees Cas, both hopeful and cautious, standing by the entrance to library with a book in one hand and a coffee mug in the other. But the caution, that slight fear, in Cas’ eyes is enough to tip Dean over the edge and thankfully he lands on the right side.

“Hey, Cas,” he smiles.

“I missed you,” Cas says by way of greeting, and for a split second Dean is surprised by the change from the customary, ‘Hello, Dean.’ Cas puts down his book and mug just as Dean drops his duffel. Sam continues on into the bunker, not so subtly leaving his brother and his angel to hash things out.

“I’m sure you’re mad at me,” Dean offers as a not-quite apology, hands in his pockets. He wants nothing more than to reach out and embrace Cas, but he doesn’t know if he should, if he’s earned it.

“For what?” Cas asks with his head tilted. “It was a hunt, and since I am not quite recovered, it was only logical that you and Sam go without me.”

Dean smiles wryly and huffs a small laugh. “No, Spock, I wasn’t talking about the case. I was being a dick before I left.”

“Oh.” Cas looks away and then takes a deep breath before continuing, his voice heavy with regret and sorrow. “Dean, I know that there has been a great deal of change in your life the past month, and now that I’m no longer an angel, if you would prefer—”

“Whoa, wait, Cas, stop.” Dean rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably before shoving the hand back in his pocket. “I wasn’t being a dick because I _want_ you to go. I just thought…”

“Thought what?” Cas asks when the silence begins to stretch.

“I thought _you_ would want to go. I mean, look at this place. And you know my life better than anyone, except maybe Sam. Why would you want to waste your chance to be human and get out of all this Heaven and Hell shit?”

For a moment, Cas looks more like Castiel, Angel of the Lord, back when he first met the Winchesters. He draws himself up and stares intently at Dean. “You think I’m _wasting_ my life here?”

Dean shrugs, attempting to be nonchalant and failing miserably. “Well…”

“No, it’s your turn to stop,” Cas says firmly. “This life is not a _waste_ , being with you is what I _chose_ , this life is _honorable_ , even if it’s difficult. Why would you think I would leave?”

“Because nothing good ever lasts, Cas. Especially not for the Winchesters. Especially not for me,” Dean blurts.

Cas’ expression softens slightly, though there is no mistaking the steel in voice. “Do not take away my choices, my agency, simply because you feel you are unworthy. If I decide this is the life I want to live, then that is my right. I have free will.”

Free will. Their rallying cry. Cas is right, even if it makes Dean unhappy—and happy, all at once, because Dean Winchester would be a psychiatrist's dream, he knows.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees quietly.

Cas studies him, then seems to accept the sentiment as is and closes the distance between them. Cas presses his forehead to Dean’s and grips his upper arms lightly. Dean’s hands make fists in his pockets for a moment before he draws them out and places them on Cas’ hips. Eyes closed, they stay there for a minute, Dean soaking in the contact he hadn’t realized just how much he needed.

The moment is of course ruined by the main door to the bunker opening and closing and Claire announcing her return loudly from the balcony. Dean and Cas pull away with sheepish and knowing smiles before turning to greet the youngest member of their family.

 

 

It’s not until much later that night, after dinner when Dean is quickly unpacking, that he finds the book. It’s on top of his dresser, facedown and splayed out near the end of the pages. “ _Faith_ by Carver Edlund”, the bright blue font against the dark cover declares.

Dean frowns, wondering where the book came from and what the hell it’s doing on his dresser. The illustration on the cover, that of a cross and the wrinkliest old man in a suit, brings Dean back almost instantly to Roy Le Grange’s faith-healing tent in Nebraska. Slowly, he picks up the book, and a newspaper article falls out.

It’s from six weeks ago, and the two columns of text are broken only by a black-and-white photo of a smiling face surrounded by the faces of two children. It’s a face that Dean knows too well, a face that has haunted his dreams for almost ten years. Book and article in hand, Dean sinks onto the edge of the bed.

 

 

> LOCAL WOMAN’S CHARITY RAISES $10,000 FOR CANCER RESEARCH             
> 
> _Lexington, NE-_ Ten years ago, Layla Holt, née Rourke, received the most devastating news of her life, news that would shape her future in ways she never expected.
> 
> “They told me the brain tumor was inoperable,” the 37-year-old mother of two tells us. “And that it was growing so fast, I probably would not live more than a year. My mother and I did everything, called everyone, but we got the same answer everywhere we went.”
> 
> But to talk to Mrs. Holt now, no one would ever suspect just how close the world came to losing one of Nebraska’s finest citizens. In January 2006, after a failed attempt to visit a faith-healer, Mrs. Holt says she had accepted her fate and was simply determined to live her remaining time to the fullest.
> 
> “I told my mother that I no longer wanted to spend time and money finding a cure for me. So, instead, we took what I had left after paying my medical bills and started this fund. I believed, and still do, that if I couldn't be cured, then God would want me to help someone else,” she says of her charity, which funds and sponsors medical treatments for children afflicted with brain tumors. But the miracles of Mrs. Holt’s donations are only one part of the wonder of this story.
> 
> “A week after creating the fund, I went in for a final check-up, and was told that the tumor was completely gone. The doctors are still baffled; they’ve never seen anything like this. I can only thank God for the miracle and second-chance, and I pray for many years to continue doing His work by helping others.”

 

The article continues for a few more paragraphs, but by now Dean’s hand is shaking and his vision is too blurry from unspilled tears to continue reading. _Layla’s alive? Miracles?_

The question of how the book and article ended up in Dean’s room is temporarily shelved as he studies the picture, blinking quickly to clear his vision. Layla looks older in some ways, but in others, so much younger, as though all of her cares have been washed away. She looks happy and radiant between two children, both clearly patients.

Dean tears his eyes away to look at the book, propped open with his fingers the way it was left on the bureau. For the first time, he notices the note scrawled in a black felt pen at the bottom of the page.

_Maybe there are still humans worth believing in._

_-C.S._

Dean skims the page and realizes with an uncomfortable jolt that it’s his prayer on Layla's behalf, the only prayer he’s ever made to God, in all its messy and awkward glory. He goes back to the inscription.

C.S.? Chuck? Chuck’s dead, at least, they all assumed after Kevin became the prophet. How could Chuck still be alive if there could only be one prophet at a time? And where is he, if he’s still around and knows what Dean’s praying and confessing and thinking? And how did he get the book and article into the bunker?

Could Chuck be…?

No. The idea is too ridiculous. Chuck was (is?) just a short, skittery, alcoholic writer with a tin ear for prose (or the twitchy toilet paper quartermaster of the Apocalypse) who got the shit deal of being a prophet. Nothing more.

And yet…

And what the hell does the note mean anyway? That Layla’s a human worth believing in? Sure, Dean’ll buy that—he bought that a long time ago. So why magically leave this note for Dean, then?

“What are you reading?” a voice rumbles behind him, and Dean starts.

“Jesus, Cas. I swear, we’re getting you a bell,” he complains as his breathing steadies again after the initial shock.

“I’m sorry, I assumed you heard me open and close the door,” Cas says. “Did you wish to be alone?”

“No, man, it’s fine,” Dean assures Cas before he can leave.

He holds out the article and book to Cas, who takes them and reads both in what seems like an instant—even as a mortal, Cas’ mind works far faster than the average human’s. Cas’ eyes grow wide as he looks up to Dean.

“Chuck?” he asks, and Dean raises a shoulder.

“That’s what I thought. But, if Kevin…”

Dean doesn’t bother to finish the thought; Cas has already made the same conclusions and is nodding in both agreement and disbelief. Both of them stare at the other, trying to process the implications of Chuck still being alive and having the power to leave this message. Dean clears his throat, and instead tackles the more manageable piece of the puzzle.

“I dunno what the hell he’s trying to tell me, though. I already knew Layla was worth saving,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the article still in Cas’ hand.

Cas smiles sadly. “Dean,” he says, and he hands the book and article back, “the note says ‘humans’, plural.”

Without another word or further explanation, Cas picks up Dean’s duffel and begins helping him unpack. After a moment, Dean joins him. As they move around the room, silently putting things away, sorting through laundry, and getting ready for bed, Cas’ words and the note run over and over again in his head.

The two of them move easily around each other, despite the tension prior to the case, and when Dean turns around after tossing his boots into the corner, he finds Cas watching him fondly. It makes Dean squirm a bit, how guilelessly Cas stares, how readily Cas accepts and welcomes his presence in bed. They lie facing each other, Dean wanting to say more but finding the words stuck in his throat.

“I chose this,” Cas breathes gruffly. “I choose you, Dean.”

“Why, Cas?”

“I might ask the same. Why did you believe in me, after all that I have done?”

Dean doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to, just like deep down, he doesn’t need Cas to really answer his question either. This thing, whatever it is that they have between them, has always been too hard to define, too complicated. But they know it’s there, they know now—more than ever—what they mean to each other, even if human words can’t express it. Ineffable, Dean might say, if he were the type to actually use his fairly extensive vocabulary.

He takes Cas’ hand under the sheets, then moves so that the other man’s fingers rest on Dean’s forearm. The remaining tendrils of Cas’ Grace infused in the Enochian symbol on his arm buzz pleasantly at the contact, like calling to like.

Perhaps there are humans worth believing in.

Like Layla.

Like Cas.

Like Sam.

Like Claire, or Charlie, or Jody…

It’s what he’s always fought for: humanity.

Maybe it’s time to start counting himself amongst its numbers.  

**Author's Note:**

> Worcester+SPN:  
> \- I simply plunked the fictional St. Philomena right where [the Cathedral of St. Paul](http://cathedralofsaintpaul.com) would be.  
> \- This is Kelley Square: [Kelley Square #1 (with surprisingly little traffic)](http://worcesterherald.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/06/kelly-square.png), [Kelley Square #2](http://i.imgur.com/psEIxp1.jpg).  
> \- We're really not kidding when we say Massholes are terrible drivers: ["Boston has THE worst drives in U.S., report says"](http://www.fox25boston.com/news/boston-has-the-worst-drivers-in-us-report-says/372494606). Oh and guess which city is the second worst? Yep, Worcester.  
> Good luck, Dean.
> 
>  
> 
> "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" - U2
> 
> I have climbed the highest mountains  
> I have run through the fields  
> Only to be with you  
> Only to be with you
> 
> I have run, I have crawled  
> I have scaled these city walls  
> These city walls  
> Only to be with you
> 
> But I still haven't found  
> What I'm looking for  
> But I still haven't found  
> What I'm looking for
> 
> I have kissed honey lips  
> Felt the healing finger tips  
> They burned like fire  
> This burning desire
> 
> I have spoke with the tongue of angels  
> I have held the hand of the devil  
> It was warm in the night  
> I was cold as a stone
> 
> But I still haven't found  
> What I'm looking for  
> But I still haven't found  
> What I'm looking for
> 
> I believe in the Kingdom Come  
> When all the colors will bleed into one  
> Bleed into one.  
> But yes, I'm still running.
> 
> You broke the bonds  
> And you loosed the chains  
> Carried the Cross of all my shame  
> Of all my shame  
> You know I believe it
> 
> But I still haven't found  
> What I'm looking for  
> But I still haven't found  
> What I'm looking for
> 
> But I still haven't found  
> What I'm looking for  
> But I still haven't found  
> What I'm looking for
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos appreciated!


End file.
